Making it Real
by OnceUponSomeChaos
Summary: A quick ficlet: As Killian watches Emma take care of her baby brother, he can't help but wonder: does she long for real memories of holding her own child? But when she insists he take a turn at holding the baby... - Captain Swan fluff birthday present for scribblecat27, re-posted from tumblr.


_She's breathtaking._

Killian leans into the couch and watches Emma coo—there is no other word for it—at the young prince. The babe's displeasure quiets as she cradles the lad. The hum of a tune reaches him and it is familiar but he cannot place it.

_She is a natural._

"Have you ever considered it?" The words are out before he can stop them.

Emma sways, the hum still low in her throat, and slowly moves toward Killian. Her steps form a pattern and he realizes Emma is executing a waltz.

The tune matches their first dance from the ball and he wants nothing more than to join her.

He doesn't. A hook and an infant are a bad combination.

"Considered what?" Her words are light, but her voice is husky, as if it was she and not the babe who had just woken up. She invades his space, waltzing into the opening of his legs and remaining there.

He scratches the back of his neck, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. He nods at the little prince. "Making the memories real."

_Killian remembers her confession, how the altered memories mixed with the truth. How it was easier to blame him for shattering her false happy life then deal with the new guilt of giving up her son. How she remembers holding Henry as a baby, but knows she did not. Wishing she had at least tried to be a mother, because the memories of being a damn good one warred with the knowledge that she had given Henry his best chance._

Emma stills for a breath and he curses himself for broaching the topic. Then she sinks next to Killian on the couch. Her eyes meet his, the naked vulnerability twisting his heart.

"Put out your arms."

It takes Killian a beat to ascertain Emma's intent.

_Bloody hell, she wants me to hold the lad._

"Swan, I—"

"Trust me." The small smile she gives him is his undoing.

It always has been.

He grabs his hook, intending to remove it, but the motion of her head stops him.

"Leave it." The smile broadens and though Killian doesn't trust himself, he trusts Emma with all that he is.

"As you wish, love." He obliges and raises his arms as if begging her to shackle him.

Her throaty laugh knots his insides and _damn_, he loves this woman.

Emma talks to him, explaining how to position his arms. To his surprise, she lays the babe's head in the crook of his left arm, folding his right arm beneath. The child is so small he's able to safely drape his hook over the other arm.

Killian's breath escapes in a loud "whoosh"—he hadn't known he'd been holding it, afraid to move lest he harm the child.

Innocent eyes find his and add fuel to the flickering spark of a dream.

Emma leans into him—them—her head resting on Killian's left shoulder.

He wonders if it's possible to die from happiness.

The lad squirms and Killian borrows a page from Emma. He hums the same tune and the babe quiets immediately.

Killian glances at Emma, the pride in her eyes adding to his confidence.

_Perhaps_…

He doesn't need a child. Emma is enough. Henry is enough.

But he would welcome one.

Surely if Killian could master his way around the many realms he'd traveled, he could learn to be a father.

With Emma.

She speaks after he returns his focus to the little prince. "Yes." It's soft, barely a whisper. "But—"

Killian saves her from struggling to answer and turns his head to kiss the top of hers, still humming to the babe. "I'm a fan of every part you, Swan, including Henry and any child of yours."

He means it, with every beat of his heart.

He hears her sigh and then his humming and the babbling of the child are the only sounds for several minutes. Killian recalls the countless times he's seen her parents do this, a happy family, watching on the outside. He's a part of it now and marvels at how she's changed. How he's changed. He thinks Emma's drifted asleep when one word drifts to him.

"Ours."


End file.
